The Self-Induced Trauma of Wooing Your College Professor
by DareU2Bme
Summary: Stiles has an enormous crush on his college professor. Lydia says to go for it, Scott says Professor Hale is creepy. The real problem is, though, how does one even begin to go about wooing their college professor? (Warning: lots of second-Hand embarrassment for you, the reader)


Stiles didn't have to look up from his laptop when the dorm door opened and then fell shut. The general doom and gloom that wafted into the room with the person, told him right away who that person was. Instead, he clicked through a few files, checked his schedule for the umpteenth time in the past twenty minutes, and all the while scowled at his laptop's screen.

He heard the telltale thud of his roommate and long-time buddy, Scott flopping down onto the opposite bed face first.

"Mmmph."

"Rough day?" Stiles asked while giving his class schedule one more grimace before finally looking over at the dementor across the room.

"Mphhuckin 'ess," replied Scott, from within the sheets. "Thon't meven."

That was when their dorm door opened again. Lydia Martin, Stiles' long-time crush turned nemesis, recently turned second bff, strode into the cramped room like she owned the place, her red curls a mane of fire around her always-perfect face.

"Damn," she said, coming to a halt when her gaze fell on Scott's prone form. "I forgot it was Wednesday."

"I should probably get a sign," agreed Stiles.

Lydia shook her head, a frown pulling at her brightly painted lips. She moved across the room, gave Stiles' bed a disdainful look, and sat primly down on its edge. While Stiles no longer felt infatuation nor venom toward her, he still found watching Lydia when she was in the room to be a satisfying habit.

"So," she said, tilting her head to the side and giving Scott a considering look, "what happened this time?"

"Argh!" exclaimed Scott in a mix between pathetic moan and angry growl. "He's just so creepy. I swear he glided into the room today. Glided." Scott sat up on the bed.

Stiles mouthed "glided" at Lydia who simply rolled her eyes in commiseration.

"Dude, something just isn't right there," said Scott, looking at Stiles, then. "I think he's evil or something. Like a vampire or like the dude with the portrait of himself who can live forever.

"You mean Dorian Grey?" asked Stiles.

"No, it was definitely a dude," replied Scott, shaking his head.

"Dorian Grey is-" started Lydia before letting out a put-upon sigh. "Nevermind," she said, "what does he look like, is he hot?"

"How would _I_ know if he's hot?"

"Scott," said Lydia, "just because you're a straight male, doesn't mean you can't appreciate the aesthetic charms of people the same sex as you. Your masculinity doesn't have to be such a precious little- urgh! Just, don't be a bigoted fool."

"I'll have you know that I am 100% masculine," said Stiles, puffing his chest up as an example. "Right here, right now; this is one big, juicy slice of rugged, manly, man-steak."

"Sorry, Stiles," apologized Scott behind a sigh. "And, anyway, he's not. He couldn't be. He's too creepy to be hot."

Stiles gave him a quick smile because no harm had been done whatsoever; he just liked to point such things out to Scott, as did Lydia, obviously. He glanced sideways at Lydia who was looking at him with a raised eyebrow.

"What?" asked Stiles.

"Rugged, manly, man-steak?" she repeated disbelievingly.

"What?" Stiles said again, shrugging.

"It's no wonder you are single," she said around a sigh, reaching out to pat his leg mock-sympathetically.

"At least I'm not stuck in a dangerous downward spiral of self-hate where I am constantly on-again, off-again with Jackson Whittemore," said Stiles with a snort. He winced instinctively after the words left his mouth, expecting to get smacked, or drop kicked, but it didn't come. Which was even more unnerving, really.

"On to more important topics," said Lydia, airily. "Stiles, have you decided which class you are going to take in Astronomy 101's stead?"

"Urgggh-bluuurgh," groaned Stiles while reaching up with both hands to run his fingers through his hair in frustration. "Everything else I'll eventually need to take is during classes I'm in." He turned his laptop toward Lydia so she could have a look at the very schedule that had been receiving his scowls earlier. "And everything that looks remotely interesting as a random elective has a prerequisite class. I might just need to have a free afternoon on Tuesdays."

"Not the worst thing ever," grumbled Scott from where he had gone back to pressing his face into his navy-blue bedding.

"It is if it means he'll take an extra semester to graduate," countered Lydia from where she was clicking through the tabs on Stiles' laptop, her eyes moving quickly back and forth as she scanned the lists of classes available and comparing it to Stiles' schedule.

Suddenly, Lydia paused in her looking. Stiles watched as a smile slowly stretched across her face. He didn't have time to wonder if it was the type of smile that meant good things or bad before Lydia was looking up over the top of his laptop and addressing him.

"I think I've found the perfect class for you."

* * *

"How was class?" asked Scott, grinning up at Stiles from where he was sprawled across the floor, Xbox controller in his hands. His eyes were bright and happy like a puppy, his demeanor completely different than it would be the next day.

"It was pretty good," said Stiles dropping down into the big, dorky beanbag chair next to Scott's bed before setting his backpack and armful of books on the floor next to him. "I've got a lot of reading to catch up on since they're already two weeks in, but it's mostly interesting stuff, so it'll be a breeze."

Despite not saying anything, Lydia looked smug where she was sitting on Stiles' bed, a book in her hand. Stiles grinned in her direction, but she wasn't looking, so he turned his attention to the racing game Scott and Jeremy, the guy from across the hall, were playing.

"What class did you end up taking?" asked Jeremy from between gritted teeth as he button-smashed his way through a speed trap.

"History of Torture Devices," said Stiles, grinning proudly. He still couldn't believe Lydia had managed to find him such a gem.

"Dude, that sounds like a really depressing and creepy course to take" said Scott bemusedly

Jeremy made a sound of agreement, though he didn't actually seem disturbed by the subject.

"I had no idea they even had classes like that here," he said, instead, before leaning to the left as if that'd help him get his race car around the tight curve.

"I think it'll be awesome!" said Stiles enthusiastically.

"Who's teaching it?" asked Jeremy, eyes still on the TV screen.

"Uh," said Stiles, leaning over in the bean bag chair to grab his hand-out for the class, "P. Hale"

"PROFESSOR HALE?" exclaimed Scott, suddenly.

There was an explosion on the screen, probably Scott's car, as Scott tossed his controller to the side and sat up to give Stiles a wild look.

Stiles jerked back in surprise.

"What the fuck, man?"

"OF COURSE!" said Scott, throwing his hands up in the air dramatically. "That totally makes sense!" he exclaimed, as though a light bulb had just turned on over his head. "Oh man, I _told_ you!"

Stiles winced when Scott rounded on him.

"Told me what?"

"P. Hale? _P. Hale_! That's my English teacher! I _told_ you he was creepy! This just clinches it!"

"I'm glad to see you've been putting that word-of-the-day toilet paper I got you to good use," deadpanned Stiles.

"This makes perfect sense, Stiles!" exclaimed Scott, ignoring Stiles' comment. "He probably uses the essays for tips!"

"Well, _there_'s a Lifetime movie that's just itching to be produced," said Stiles wryly.

Scott made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat before moving to flop down on his bed, again. _Damn_, that was only supposed to be a Wednesday and Friday thing.

"I dunno, man. I was in his class today and he was nice enough. He seemed perfectly sane to me," said Stiles.

"Sane?" exclaimed Scott, looking at Stiles in disbelief. "SANE? Not only is he a genuinely creepy guy, but now he's teaching a class about the history of… TORTURE DEVICES?"

"Uh, Guy?, were you planning on playing, or…?" asked Jeremy, looking expectantly over his shoulder at Scott from where he was sitting on the floor in front of the TV.

"This might be a while," said Lydia, putting her book down and giving Jeremy a venomous but motherly smile. "Stiles seems to have broken him a day ahead of schedule. How about you head back to your little room, mmkay?"

"The only one who doesn't seem sane is you, man," said Stiles.

Scott made a noise of outrage.

"Dude, I'm just saying," said Stiles, shrugging. "You've been downright bipolar since college started."

Lydia waited until the dorm room door shut behind Jeremy before turning her keen, green eyes onto Scott.

"Scott, do you need help with your English homework?" she asked. "You shouldn't be too embarrassed to admit it if you need a tutor."

"What?" yelped Scott.

"We can't _all_ be geniuses," she said with a shrug. "I'm just thinking, considering Stiles doesn't find this man creepy and you continue to rant about him after every single English class, it could be possible that you are projecting your dislike of the subject onto the professor. Admittedly, you're going a bit far with it for mere projection, but perhaps you are just doing_ that _poorly in the class."

"No!" exclaimed Scott. "He's… no! You guys have to see him, he's… urrrgh.. _he's evil_!"

Stiles snorted. He made sure to cover his amusement with a serious look and a shrug when Scott looked his way.

* * *

"This will make him talk!" growled Professor Hale, his voice low and lethal yet managing to sound out across the room.

His teeth almost looked sharper than human in the way he bared them. His eyes shone in terrible delight, his stance open and his presence large. Stiles grinned like an idiot while some of the other students in the room cringed and shrunk down in their seats. It was only his second History of Torture Devices class and Stiles was already in love... erm... with the class.

Professor Hale stood at the front of the classroom, remote in hand, and as he spoke to the class, he clicked through photographs, diagrams, and drawings alike of various ancient devices and methods of torture. There were times where Stiles' own morbid sense of curiosity was won over by his humanity and he would feel a little ill at the explanations behind devices, but for the most part, he just found the entire thing enthralling.

"For as long as there have been humans, there has been torture," spoke Professor Hale. "Some of our first actual accounts of it being used legally, however, come from Rome." He rolled his eyes and gave the class a small grin before adding, "of course".

"The great jurists of Rome called torture 'the highest form of truth'," said Hale, clicking the remote to show another slide to the class. "I will not be interjecting my own opinions on the matter, but I can tell you that this view did not go uncriticized. Many philosophers, including one you may have heard of if you have any wit in those jellies of yours (psst, it starts with an A), spoke against torture saying not that it was inhumane, but that 'those under compulsion are as likely to give false evidence as true.' He made a good point, explaining that some would be more likely to make up whatever the hell they could think of in order to get out of the torture, while some would actually go to the grave with whatever it was they were holding secret. In either case, you just sold your soul to the devil for nothing."

Stiles chewed on his lower lip and scribbled out "Aristotle" in his notes so he'd remember to look up the guy's thoughts on torture later.

"Pay attention, boys and girls! This is the proper way to dispute something you don't agree with… with reason! So, if any of you freshmen are aching to stretch your political wings now that you're in college, maybe think of something smart to say before you get your little pumpkin faces on television during some random protest, alright? None of this 'because it is bad and mean and it hurts feelings'. But, of course, this isn't debate class, so let's not get off topic."

Stiles smirked to himself at Professor Hale's words, amused to have one of the guy's peeves so boldly spelled out to him.

"Psst," said the guy beside him, leaning slightly into Stiles' space. Stiles turned to him questioningly while Professor Hale continued on. "Can you believe this guy?" the kid asked with an exaggerated scowl on his face. Stiles' brow furrowed in confusion. "He is so damn full of himself, right? Like, just show us the cool shit already. My cousin's friend took this class two years ago and said Hale actually brought in some of these old devices from a museum and showed everyone how they worked."

"Huh," said Stiles, thoughtfully, turning his eyes back onto Hale. "That's pretty sweet."

"Right?" agreed the kid. "I'm not here to listen to some middle-aged dude who's in love with the sound of his own voice; I'm here for _that_ shit."

Stiles had nothing to say to that, so kept his eyes forward long enough that the other guy sat back in his seat and went silent again. He tuned back in to what Professor Hale was saying, and even though he had an interesting collection of old hand-drawn diagrams on the projector's screen, Stiles' eyes kept resting back on the man, himself. He didn't think he seemed all that condescending or 'full-of-himself', and he _definitely_ didn't look old.

No, he looked…

Well, to be quite honest, he _did_ have to give Scott _some_ credit, because were he to describe Professor Hale to someone, the description might make him out to seem rather skeevy. The man wore cotton t shirts and henleys like they were the highest form of male fashion, always with any and all buttons they had undone. If the shirt didn't have buttons, it was a v-neck -a _plunging_ v-neck. Sometimes the neck was so wide that it would be downright, undeniably, charge-for-looking indecent were a woman to wear the same.

Professor Hale always wore what looked like designer jeans with fancy stitching and different types of stonewash finishes as if he were some twenty year old celebrity. They were nice jeans but, while he wasn't middle-aged, he wasn't _quite_ young enough to _quite_ pull them off, either. His hair was always slicked up with a tad too much product and he shaved his facial hair into a strange moustache and goatee with exaggerated soul-patch. Overall, his entire ensemble, if worn by any other man, would shout that a career in television crime show reconstructions lay in wait.

On Professor Hale, though, it somehow worked.

It worked really, really, _really_ well, actually.

On Professor Hale, it didn't look like a great, big, red sign saying "Douche Alert", like the ones Lydia and Stiles would snicker about making for guys they would sometimes see at bars. It didn't make him look even older than he was and in the midst of a mid-life crisis, like Lydia would sometimes complain of men she saw wearing similar outfits. No, it all just… fit.

Oh, and damn did it _fit_.

Professor Hale's stylish jeans and close-fitting, v-neck shirts fit him really well and showed off just how _fit_ the man was. If Stiles had even a modicum of a chance with the guy, he would be following him around like a lost puppy, like a moth to flame, like a… like a teenaged Stiles after Lydia Martin.

Damnit!

Professor Hale was Stiles' new Lydia.

Stiles almost smacked himself in the face at the sudden realization.

"...and that, dear boys and girls, is why you should never agree to attend a Free Beer and Lute Strings event if you see any of the local fraternities putting one on," finished Professor Hale with a coy smile that had Stiles' mouth falling open even without the context while the rest of the class groaned. "Next week, we'll be moving forward into the wonderful, magical land of brutal and undignified deaths because not _all_ torture is meant to be survived. Make sure to read chapter three in your textbooks, preferably not right before bedtime."

With that, everyone in the class began to shift around and get their things together. Stiles quickly scribbled "beer" and "lute strings" into the margin of his notes to remind himself to later look up what he had missed.

* * *

Scott was waiting outside the classroom door when Stiles finally came out. He looked nervous and cagey, twisting his bag's strap in his fingers. It almost had Stiles feeling off before he realized it was because of Professor Hale.

"It's okay, Scott," said Stiles, grinning, "he left through the teacher's door at the front of the room a few minutes ago."

Scott relaxed then, letting out a long breath that made his shaggy hair blow up in the front. They began to walk together, side-by-side, down the busy hallway. The cafeteria was their goal. Scott still seemed ill-at-ease. Stiles rolled his eyes and grinned at him, bumping their shoulders together teasingly.

"Dude, he's not just going to appear in front of us like some sort of apparition."

"Isn't he, Stiles? _Isn't he?_," said Scott, narrowing his eyes at the back of a man across the hall who was dressed in similar clothes as Professor Hale tended to wear. Stiles could tell it wasn't him, though; Hale's ass was at least ten times better. "The sooner we get out of the Arts section, the better."

"So, how's the tutoring with Lydia going?" asked Stiles as they rounded a corner.

Scott groaned.

"That bad, hey?" laughed Stiles, only a little sympathetic.

"We had one session together in the library and she's decided that I'm too large a project for her alone on top of her studies."

"Her words," clarified Stiles.

"Of course," said Scott, leaning in to roll his eyes with Stiles. Stiles bobbed his head in understanding. "Anyway, she's signed me up for this study group that meets Friday nights. She even gave the group leader her cell number and told him to text her if I don't show up."

"Ouch."

"_Friday_ nights, Stiles!"

"I know, I know," said Stiles, reaching over to pat Scott on the shoulder.

"Boys!" called out Lydia as they entered the cafeteria.

"Lydia, Moon of my Life," called back Stiles, grinning widely. "We were just talking about you."

Lydia smiled her slight smile she always did and walked up to them. She held her chin high and kept her gait purposeful with just the right amount of sway that had every young man (and some women) in the vicinity looking their way with a whiplash-inducing speed.

"Is that so?" she said, pushing between Scott and Stiles so they could each wrap an arm around her waist -every queen needed her own pair of manservants.

"We were just saying how fortunate we are to have someone like you in our lives to make sure we succeed in our schooling," said Stiles, giving her waist a soft squeeze as the three walked forward. Scott just whimpered in his depression.

"Ah, so Scott has told you about the study group," she said.

"Stilinski!" exclaimed an angry voice to their left.

The three faltered in step and all looked over. Stiles rolled his eyes when he saw Jackson getting up from a table of students who all looked like they had similarly gotten accepted to the university on their sports abilities alone.

"Get your hands off my girl," he growled as he walked up to them, his movements jerky with anger. Jackson always looked like he was in the early onsets of St Vitus dance disease.

Scott immediately dropped his arm and took a few steps back, not wanting to cause any trouble. Stiles, on the other hand, lived for the sort of drama involved with egging Jackson on. He just grinned and moved a little closer to Lydia. Some days it still astonished him that she'd even allow him to breathe the same air as her. If only he could take a photo of them right then and send it back in time to 16 year old Stiles. The kid would probably die of an aneurism.

"I belong to no one, Jackson," said Lydia, putting on her trademarked bored face before leaning into Stiles. "Besides, if I did, I think this one here would be a much better keeper."

Stiles' eyes widened a tad at Lydia's comment, but he just grinned cockily at Jackson as if she hadn't just blown his mind. Sure, she was just messing with her boyfriend (for whatever reason; they had a messed up sort of relationship), but it was still the first time (and probably last) that she'd even allude to belonging to Stiles.

"Yeah, cuz he's a wet, nerd blanket," huffed Jackson, his well-used, tough-guy pout was beginning to form.

"There's something rather…" Lydia rolled her eyes up in a thoughtful, innocent expression while licking her lips seductively, "_alluring_ about obedience. It makes a person feel rather grateful. You, of all people, Jackson, know how I show my gratitude."

Stiles wasn't sure what his face was doing in that moment, but Jackson's was in full-out pout mode complete with a tick in his jaw and pinched skin between his eyebrows -the usual.

"Stiles," purred Lydia, then, turning in his arm to smile up at him, flirtily, "go get me a chef's salad and a bottle of green iced tea."

She patted him on the arm before slipping out from under it to practically prance over to Jackson, grab him by his shirt, and direct him to a free table.

"Did she just?" asked Scott, moving back to Stiles' side.

"Hrrmff," replied Stiles, slightly dazed.

Scott laughed and patted Stiles' shoulder before they headed over to the food line together.

"I'm just glad she waited until my V-card had been well and thoroughly punched before pulling that on me," said Stiles, jokingly. "Can you imagine me in high school after that?"

"I dunno, man, you looked pretty close to creaming your pants as it is," teased Scott.

Stiles let out a strange squeak of outrage, but ultimately let it go. It was probably true.

By the time they reached the food, most of the good stuff was gone; including the slices of pepperoni pizza and the big pan of Mac n Cheese, fortunately for Stiles, there was a fresh-looking container of Chef's Salad waiting for him. He added that to his tray along with his cup of chili and slice of cheese toast that he had grabbed for himself.

Joke or not, he made sure the bottle of iced tea he grabbed was the green tea kind.

* * *

"I'm pretty sure he's Satan," exclaimed Scott as conclusion to his long-winded rant about Professor Hale and his latest English assignment.

"Satan in a V-neck," quipped Stiles, smiling secretly to himself from where he was lounging on one of the worn couches in the dorm lounge.

"Who?" asked Lydia, coming into the room with Jeremy and his girlfriend, Tasha, at her heels.

"C'mon Lydia," said Stiles, "it's Wednesday, who do you think?"

"Satan and Satan in a V-neck are two vastly different ways to describe someone, _Sweetheart_," said Lydia, walking across the room and staring at Stiles' legs with a raised eyebrow until he got the signal and moved them out of her way.

"I've always wanted to know," said Stiles, sitting up so that she could sit beside him, "how _do_ you manage to fit _so much_ judgement into what most would consider a term of endearment?"

Lydia smiled cattily at him before shrugging.

"It's a gift."

"Who _are _you guys talking about?" asked Tasha, sitting down in the big sofa chair across from them while Jeremy plopped down in a bean bag chair beside Scott. Considering the amount of bean bag chairs throughout the dorms and student rooms of the college, Stiles had taken to assuming the 90s had a bean-bag chair blow out sale back in December 1999.

"Tasha!" exclaimed Scott, sitting up and grinning in excitement. "You're in my class, _you _understand! Professor Hale is Satan, right?"

She pursed her lips for a moment, in thought. She looked like she wasn't sure how to answer.

"I… wouldn't call him that," she said. "He's pretty strange, though; a little egotistical and he dresses-"

"In V-necks, I assume," cut in Lydia, dryly. Tasha grimace-smiled with slight annoyance at being cut off, but nodded agreement. "But you don't think he's evil and creepy like Satan?"

"He's not my favorite professor, but I don't mind him," said Tasha, shrugging and looking a little uncomfortable under Lydia's scrutiny.

"Hmm," hummed Lydia thoughtfully while looking back and forth between Scott and Stiles. "Interesting."

"What?" asked Scott, looking sulky at being betrayed by Tasha.

"There seem to be a number of differing opinions of this man," said Lydia, suddenly going nonchalant. "What does he look like?" she asked, then, as she pulled out her compact and opened it up to touch up her bright red lipstick.

"Hot," started Stiles with sudden enthusiasm. "No, don't roll your eyes. He's _so_ hot, Lydia."

Tasha hummed in agreement, nodding her head even while shooting Scott an apologetic look.

"He has a moviestar face," continued Stiles. "Seriously! He looks like he should be… I dunno… selling toothpaste or yogurt or something on television. He's got this crazy jawline and these really intense eyes and sexy lips and… one of those butt chin things, you know?"

"Cleft chin," supplied Lydia in a bored tone, but her eyes were sparkling with amused interest.

"Yeah!" said Stiles before continuing. "And, yeah, he dresses a bit like the douches we see at the clubs on Friday nights, but it weirdly works for him."

"I really kind of does," admitted Tasha at Lydia's unconvinced frown.

After a few more minutes of Stiles gushing to the two interested girls, there was a loud thunk that startled everyone in the room. Stiles looked over to see that Scott had thrown his textbook onto the IKEA-style coffee table between them.

"Can we_ please _stop talking about how sexy Professor Hale's hands are?" whined Scott. "I never, ever, _ever_ wanted to know that 'his adams apple was the perfect shape to suck' or that 'his butt looks perfectly bitable'. He's freaking creepy and you have. _got_. to. stop."

Jeremy slowly raised his hand.

"I, too, would appreciate a change in topic," he said.

"Sorry, buddy," said Stiles, shooting Scott an apologetic grin. "What should we talk about?"

"There's a party Friday night," offered Tasha. "It's over at…"

Lydia leaned in to Stiles, then, and whispered "So, are you going to pursue your new love interest?"

"... it's BYOB, but considering the location, I think it would be pretty awesome to hit up," she finished.

Stiles narrowed his eyes at Lydia.

"He's my professor, isn't that illegal?" he asked in a hushed voice.

"Nope," said Lydia, popping the 'p' sound at the end.

"Well, he's definitely out of my league," countered Stiles.

"So am I, but you got me," she said with a grin before leaning in to kiss his cheek. She patted his knee and then stood up. "Well, I've wasted enough time here, I'm off."

"Not in the way I had wanted!" Stiles called to her back. He couldn't be certain, but Stiles thought he heard her laughing as she went.

Once Lydia had left the room, Stiles noticed the other three were quiet and looking at him.

"What?" he asked.

"You've got a little… right there," said Tasha, wiping at her own face to show Stiles.

Stiles wiped his cheek, his fingers coming away red with Lydia's lipstick.

He rolled his eyes, smiling to himself.

**S**o, maybe she had a point. But how would he even begin to go about wooing his _college professor_?

* * *

-BREAK-

* * *

It was as though Stiles had just fallen into an alternative reality where he was a random background character on an episode of Supernatural. Professor Hale looked like an angel -not a rosy-cheeked cherub, no. He was more like those edgy, not necessarily trustworthy angels on Supernatural.

He stood at the front of the classroom, dressed in a soft, cream v-neck tee with sunlight streaming in through the wall of windows at his back giving him a surreal glow. He had a small, benign smile on his face, as if his mouth just rested that way. His demon-like good-looks, dark hair, and satanic soul-patch were the perfect juxtaposition to the ethereal glow about him.

In summation: Professor Hale = Supernatural angel.

"Mr. Stilinski," spoke Professor Hale, startling Stiles so hard, he nearly tossed his entire desktop of items on the floor.

"Wazzup?" asked Stiles, stupidly.

He twitched in annoyance of his own word choice. Professor Hale's lips twitched in… amusement? Was that amusement? _Please,_ dear g*d in heaven, let it be amusement. Stiles had no chance of being ruggedly handsome, or demur and alluring. _ All_ he had to work with was amusingly endearing.

"Did you have a question?" asked Professor Hale as he began moving across the room toward Stiles. It changed the angle of the lighting. It made him looking even more gorgeous. It was horrible.

"No! What? No... I'm totally -why?"

"You were staring at me," explained Professor Hale, his lips doing that quirk-twitch thing again. That was _so totally_ amusement. It had to be. "It made me wonder if you had a question about the assignment."

"Oh! Uh, well, I…" Stiles trailed off as he looked down and quickly scanned over the assignment sheet he had yet to even glance at. Perhaps there was a question to be asked and he could keep the gorgeous man at his desk a moment longer. Damnit, now that he was this close, he even smelled ethereal. Was that even a thing? Smelling ethereal? He'd ask Lydia, but she'd just scold him for being stupid.

Shit. Professor Hale was still looking at him with that adorable, quizzical expression on his perfect face. "Erm…" breathed Stiles, panicking. "I… was just wondering… uh… why, why you don't have your name on your hand-outs like the other professors. My one Professor has B. Finstock for Bobby Finstock on his assignment, another actually has her whole name, Shawna Silverman. You just have P. Hale, like... Professor... Hale?"

Stiles couldn't begin to interpret the look that crossed Professor Hale's face, it definitely had some deep depths to it.

"P isn't for Professor," said Professor Hale after a long, pregnant pause where Stiles was certain he was being judged. "The proper abbreviation for Professor is Prof."

Stiles opened and closed his mouth like a fish for a few milliseconds before finally regaining his hold of his own brain. "Heh, right, of course, that… duh.. okay," he stammered. -Okay, so not the tightest of holds.

"P stands for Peter in my case," said Professor Hale after staring for a few moments of silence as if he were enjoying watching Stiles squirm. He probably was.

"Ah, yes, well, that's... great; awesome, even!"

Professor Hale smiled, leaning down so he was ever so slightly in Stiles' personal space.

"Do you have any other questions, Mr. Stilinski?" he asked in a low voice. "Perhaps something pertaining to the assignment?"

Stiles audibly gulped.

"N-no, nope," he said, shaking his head. "I look forward to completing the assignment...uh, sir."

Professor Hale chuckled lowly and straightened from where he had somehow gotten to the point of practically looming over Stiles' desk. Stiles let out a long breath once Professor Hale was back down at the front of the room. A girl to his left leaned over and lightly elbowed him in the arm.

"It's okay," she whispered, "he hasn't _actually_ killed anyone, those were just rumours."

"What?" hissed Stiles in surprised.

"I'm just saying they were rumours; you don't have to be scared."

"Scared? I'm not scared, who said I was scared?" asked Stiles, narrowing his eyes.

She barked out a laugh, but was quick to cover her mouth and glance to the front of the room. Her shifty eyes would have made her consolation completely moot, if Stiles actually _had_ been needing the comfort.

"Sure could have fooled me," she said, before turning back to her notes.

"Scared," Stiles whispered at himself in annoyance.

* * *

"Scared!" exclaimed Stiles at the lunch table in the cafeteria, throwing his arms up for extra emphasis. "She thought I was scared!"

Scott nearly dropped his burger in surprise at Stiles' sudden outburst. A few students at nearby lunch tables glanced their way. Stiles just flailed his arms all the more. Lydia didn't look impressed. Jackson wasn't paying attention at all. He hadn't even flinched at Stiles' shout. He was too busy stealing glances at a few cheerleaders two tables down from them between bites of his own burger.

"If she thought I was scared, what did Professor Hale think!?" hissed Stiles, finally remembering he didn't _actually_ want the entire student body of the university to know about his would-be love life. "There's no way in hell I'm gonna 'woo' this guy, Lydia."

"Certainly not if you call it 'woo'ing," agreed Lydia, scrunching her nose in distaste.

Stiles made a face right back at her.

"Do you even know if he's gay?" asked Scott. "I think he might be too evil to be gay."

"Awww, Scott," whined Stiles with a smile, leaning in and throwing an arm around his buddy's shoulders. "That has to be the nicest homophobic thing you've ever said!"

Lydia rolled her eyes.

"Don't be so gay, Bilinski," growled Jackson when he glanced over and saw Stiles side-hugging Scott.

"I'm not homophobic," grumbled Scott.

"I know, buddy, I know," said Stiles, before planting a big, loud kiss on Scott's cheek for Jackson's benefit. "We tease because we love."

"You should try flirting," said Lydia before taking a demure sip through her straw. "Then, if he looks interested, you'll know."

"Flirting," repeated Stiles slowly, sounding out the word as if for the first time. "You mean the thing with the fluttering eyelashes and the pouty lips and the coquettish giggling?"

"I said flirting, not transform into Betty Boop. Honestly, Stiles!" she said with a huff before tossing her hair over her shoulder. "I mean, compliment him, appeal to his vanity and intellect, gently tease him," she paused and squinted at Stiles thoughtfully. "Actually, you probably could try the eyelashes thing, they're rather long."

Stiles pursed his lips into a 'duck-face' and batted his eyelashes at Lydia.

"Thank y—ow! Don't tug on them! They're real, they're real!" he exclaimed, slapping at her hand. "And I don't know how effective that's going to be, Lyds. He thinks I'm a moron and I went and proved it today when we had our first ever one-on-one interaction." Stiles let out a frustrated sigh and leaned his chin on his hand, "it's not fair; I'm a spazz and he's... _perfect_."

"Wow," said Lydia smirking. "Did you just revert to a thirteen-year-old girl who got _Dreamphone_ for Christmas?"

Stiles scowled.

"You could try the bend and snap?" Scott helpfully suggested. "Or just wrap yourself up in a plastic tarp and look vulnerable. I'm sure he'll swoop."

"Oh, my g*d," exclaimed Stiles. "I'm banning you from watching _Dexter _on your own! Professor Hale is not evil! You're permanently banned! That's right, my friend, banned for life!"

"When are you finding time to watch Dexter, Scott?" asked Lydia, narrowing her eyes across the table at him. "Shouldn't you be working on English?"

Scott whimpered and tried to hide behind Stiles.

"Lydia," whined Stiles.

Lydia let out a soft huff, her shoulders falling ever so slightly.

"Okay, Stiles," she said. "You're pathetic. You want him. You need my help."

Stiles wanted to stick up for his valour, but decided he'd go for 'sad puppy' and just nod in agreement. Lydia sighed and stood up. She grabbed him by the wrist and roughly pulled him out of his chair, her grip much harsher than he would have expected.

"Where are we going?" asked Stiles, flailing to follow her.

"To the library," she replied. "Do you have your student ID?"

"Of course, but why the library?" asked Stiles, jogging to keep up to her quick pace, the click-clack of her heels on the tile floor loud and echoing even in the busy cafeteria.

"Research," she said, simply.

It took until they were actually entering the quiet confines of the university's library for Stiles to even realize Scott and Jackson were following them. He had been too busy wondering what the hell Lydia thought they could learn about wooing Professor Hale in the library.

"I doubt they have the recorded history of wooing in our library," hissed Stiles.

Lydia turned back to roll her eyes over her shoulder at him before directing him to a line of computers.

"This isn't _that_ sort of research, idiot," she said, but it was almost fondly… almost… if Stiles squinted.

She pushed him down in a chair in front of a computer and then held her hand out for Stiles. He stared blankly at her hand for a beat with Jackson and Scott leaning over his shoulders, before he realized she wanted his student ID card. He shifted his weight to pull his wallet out of his back pocket and flipped it open, handing her the card in question.

She looked it over, frowning at his lame student photo, and then typed in his ID on the computer. She didn't let him type in his password, just made a guess. It only took her two tries to get his password; perhaps he needed to change it. When the computer came to life, she clicked on the internet icon and the first thing that popped up was the university's home page.

Instead of clicking over to 'google' or some other search engine, Lydia clicked through a few pages on the website until they came to the faculty for the Arts department. First on the list was Peter Hale. His staff photo was glorious. Stiles glanced at Lydia's face where she was standing, leaning over him, her right hand on the mouse and left on the keyboard. She looked mildly impressed with Peter's face, which meant a whole lot more than it appeared. He couldn't help but feel a little smug at his impeccable taste.

"Scott," Lydia said mostly in monotone, except for the slight hint of scolding. "How could you possibly say he was ugly?"

"His personality is ugly," muttered Scott.

Stiles rolled his eyes.

"Damn," breathed Jackson, face suddenly way too close to Stiles. "He is the biggest fucking dweeb. Look at all the classes he teaches! And look at how lame all the classes he teaches are."

"A man of intellect is far more attractive than a _fucking moron_, Jackson," hissed Stiles, before blindly batting at his face. He did _not _need Jackson Whittemore's breath on his neck and ear. That was just something he really never wanted to experience.

Lydia let out a frustrated sigh.

"I knew it was a long-shot, but I had hoped there would be something a little more personal on their profiles," she said, straightening. "It looks like we'll have to either dig deeper, or go into this blind."

"Yeah, because what man _doesn't_ use his professional profile like a dating site?" snarked Stiles, though it was mostly in disappointment.

Lydia smacked the back of his head.

"I have to get to class," she huffed, before pulling the strap of her bag back up her shoulder and turning to leave. Jackson was quick to follow on her heels.

"Sorry, man," said Scott, trying for sympathetic, but it didn't really work because Stiles knew he loathed Professor Hale.

"Don't worry about it," said Stiles, turning to grin at Scott.

Scott held out a fist for a bump even while saying he had to run to his next class, too. Stiles bumped fists and watched Scott go before turning back to the computer screen.

Honestly, Jackson was right, it _was_ a lot of courses for one guy to cover, especially considering most of them involved a lot of essays. Did Professor Hale even have a life outside of the university? Stiles wondered what it was like. He stared at Professor Hales' stupidly-handsome face with it's trademark slight-smirk and let his mind wander to wine and cheese nights with other stupidly-handsome, highly educated people, and private screenings of old black and white movies at the fancy movie theatre downtown.

"Research?" asked a low, smooth voice.

Stiles startled and quickly turned to find a mirror image of the photograph on his screen leaning down next to him.

"Uh… guunff.. bler… hi!"

"Hello, Mr. Stilinski," replied Professor Hale, smiling quizzically at him. His voice was low and intimate in the quiet of the library, his face so close to Stiles where he was leaned slightly over Stiles' shoulder. "Checking out our website, I see. We just got a new webmaster this past summer, you know."

"Oh.. yeah? That's… great," squeaked out Stiles. "It looks really, awesome. Just so you know, this isn't...I was just… I… um…" Stiles swallowed heavily and looked from Professor Hale's pleasantly expectant face back to the computer screen. "I was looking up Mr. Finstock's profile, because... I... um… was."

Stiles groaned internally, but left his statement hanging lamely between them. Professor Hale frowned -he almost looked disappointed. Weird.

"Is that so?" he asked, seeming not completely sold on Stiles' explanation.

"Yeah," said Stiles, nodding too enthusiastically. "He's really.. uh.. awesome. Or.. so I hear. I dunno, I just.. think I should maybe take more of his classes.. because… he just… well, you know how he runs the debate team, right? And like.. he does all those cool, uh…"

Stiles glanced back at the computer, again.

"...political science type classes?" he finished, not even knowing what he was talking about. "It's kind of weird, though, right? Like, why would he be in the Arts department? He seems much too… uh, technical for that... Y'know?"

"Curious, indeed," said Professor Hale after a very long pause where he had spent a nerve-wrackingly long time scanning Stiles' face. "Well, I'll see you later."

Stiles watched out of the corner of his eye as Professor Hale walked away. Once he was out of earshot, Stiles dropped his head into his hands and let out a low, pathetic groan. He sat like that for a few moments before he could collect himself, then he logged out of the computer and swiveled around in the computer chair to leave.

It brought him face to face with one Professor Finstock.

"I'm flattered, Bilinski," said Finstock, lowly, his crazy eyes intense in their wild stare. "Really… flattered. But-" he pointed at himself, shook his head, then pointed at Stiles and gagged audibly "this? It's not going to happen. I understand it's a confusing time for you. Your hormones are going crazy, you're trying to find yourself, the music industry is oversexed, and people are willingly watching Downton Abbey. We live in confusing times. I would apologize for making it even more confusing for you by walking around with all this rugged, masculine, sex appeal, but I'm not going to apologize for my existence. Would you have me apologize for existing, Bilinski?"

Stiles quickly shook his head at the accusing finger pointed at his nose.

"But don't worry, kid," said Professor Finstock. "You'll love again."

He patted Stiles on the knee, but then froze. His eyes widened and he quickly pulled his hand back.

"Uh, no homo?" he said, wiping his hand on his own pants. "Can I say that? Is that cool? My neighbour's gay so I think it's okay." He took a moment to speculate on that, and whatever he decided must have soothed his worry, because he patted Stiles' shoulder. "No homo, Stiles. No homo."

Stiles watched with his mouth slightly agape, then, as Professor Finstock turned and walked away into a section of the library filled with old encyclopedias rarely used by students.

* * *

"I'm not sure about this, Lydia," squeak-spoke Stiles as he was ushered into the little pub. "No, like, I'm really, really not sure about this. The only thing I can say about this with any certainty is how uncomfortable I am and concerned about the results. Lydia… please."

"Would you just stop?" she hissed as she turned around and was met with his defensive, half-raised hands.

Lydia batted them out of the way and then proceeded to prod and push at him as if she had the magical ability to turn him into something sexy with the mere shifting of his shirt -his shirt _she_ had picked out for him earlier after spending a fair amount of time going through his clothes and judging him harshly on each and every item she came across.

"I can't do this Lydia," Stiles replied in the same sort of hiss, except his bore a decidedly more panicked lilt. "No way in hell anyone believes I frequent this place. Are you even kidding me right now? The walls are wood-panelled… Wood. Panelled. Lydia!"

Lydia crinkled her nose, but didn't pause in messing with his shirt.

"At least it's real wood," she said.

She grabbed Stiles' shoulders and gave him a rough backward push so she could hold him at arm's length to get a better look at him. He struggled to keep his balance, but made sure not to fall over and take her with him. She was much more terrifying than the fall itself. After giving him a once over, Lydia seemed to determine him passable, because she nodded to herself and let him go.

"It definitely does have an 'old boys club' feel to it, doesn't it?" she said, curling a finger at Stiles over her shoulder as she walked away from him. He grumbled, but followed. "C'mon, I was told from a good source that he comes here on Thursdays."

"Why Thursdays?" Stiles muttered to himself.

He nearly ran straight into Lydia when she stopped abruptly in front of him. He flailed momentarily, but managed to keep from knocking into her. She shushed him, unmoved by his display.

"There he is," she whispered.

Stiles looked in the direction she was looking, and immediately picked him out. Professor Hale was sitting at the supremely hard-wood bar, a beer in his left hand and a small smile on his face. Stiles' heart did a double-beat -okay, maybe not; because that would probably be life-threatening and, despite his slightly heightened blood pressure, Stiles' heart was, physically, doing pretty okay right then. The point was that his general anxiousness spiked, but he was also excited to see the guy. Crushes; urgh, worst things ever.

"Go to him," whispered Lydia before giving Stiles a push.

"Wha…" stammered Stiles, giving her a wide-eyed look, but she just smiled and nodded before turning to leave. "Worst. Friend. Ever," he muttered under his breath before turning to face the bar where Professor -_Peter _Hale awaited. If he was gonna try to woo him in a bar like a fellow adult, he should probably call him Peter.

He was talking to the bartender about something, a smile pulling at his lips and the bartender chuckling. The pub had only a handful of patrons, but it _was _Thursday evening and it _was_ a pretty lame bar. Stiles took a deep breath to steel himself and then moved forward. He practiced a few "hello"'s and "fancy meeting you here, Professor!"'s in his head on the short walk there, taking his steps extra-slow to prolong his last moments of life.

Eons later, Stiles was at Peter's back and just about to reach for the barstool next to his, a over-practised greeting ready on his tongue, when a man slightly older than the professor, himself, sat down in the stool on Peter's other side and began talking to him. Stiles recoiled from the barstool's back before quickly running the offending hand through his hair. It wasn't suave. It wanted to be, but it _definitely_ wasn't. He deliberated for a millisecond before taking a seat four stools down from Peter, instead. He glanced sideways at the professor and bit his lower lip, his heart pounding in his ears.

Peter was turned, at that point, completely toward the newcomer and they were engaged in a conversation that was already lively. Stiles blew a breath out through loose lips, not quite allowing himself to sigh. He slouched in his chair and wondered if Lydia was still watching him from somewhere in the small pub, or if she had left completely, certain he'd have a way home with Professor Hale. How nice of her to have such faith in Stiles -or, perhaps, she just didn't care if he needed to cab his way back home.

"What'll you have, kid?" asked a deep voice with the type of accent one would expect from a true New Yorker, not a guy in a traditional, nearly-british looking pub near a university in California.

"Uhh," stammered Stiles, trying to think on the spot. He glanced sideways at Peter, again, only to find that he actually had caught Peter's eye. Stiles tensed and quickly turned back to the bartender. "I'll have… a… uh… Scotch on the Rocks," he finally decided on, his voice lowering an octave just from the mere utterance of such a manly drink. He smirked proudly to himself when the bartender nodded and turned to fix the drink for him, no questions asked.

Stiles couldn't help but glance sideways one more time as he waited the few moments for his drink. His eyes locked with Peter's momentarily and he nearly fell off his stool in surprise. The guy was still looking his way! He frowned a little, trying to gain control of his face, before giving Peter a cool look of mild interest and a quick wave.

"Yeah," he said to himself, lowly, "that's right, I don't even care that you're here. How do you like that, sexy prof?"

Someone cleared their throat. Stiles looked up to see the bartender looking at him with mild distaste, a glass tumbler standing between them on the bartop. It looked like a challenge. Stiles gave the bartender a sheepish smile before quickly pulling out his wallet to pay. He briefly wondered to himself why all the badass guys at the bars never seemed to have to pay between drinks. It really seemed to kill his overall mature and complicated enigma-thing he had going on.

"Definitely not mature and complicated, kid," said the bartender and Stiles had to physically stop himself from facepalming.

"I said that out-loud?" he groaned.

The bartender rolled his eyes, took Stiles' money along with Stiles' new-found cool, enigma manliness, and worked his way down the bar for more orders. Whatever.

Stiles took the glass in his hand, letting the cool of it seep into his skin for a moment, and then lifted it to his lips. He was James Bond, he was Clint Eastwood, he was _the fucking Godfather_… okay, maybe not the Godfather, but he was slick, really slick. He was the epitome of masculinity at its finest. He was… he was drinking the blood of Satan… WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?

Stiles coughed and sputtered, choking on the terrible, evil poison that was burning its way down his throat. He jumped backward off the bar stool, spilling the rest of the drink, complete with its ice cubes, out of the tumbler. He managed to stop himself from landing with his ass on the floor, but only barely. When he finally got control of his coughing, he looked up to see the entire room had gone still and all eyes were on him.

"Awesome," he croaked to himself.

"Uh, sorry about the.. uh… excuse me," he spoke to no one in particular, before high-tailing it out of the pub. He might have heard someone say something like "Stilinski" and "okay?" as he left, but he couldn't be certain.

He was an entire street away before he thought to check if Lydia had stuck around. He paused, but no one was running after him, no one was calling his name. It was probably a safe bet that she had _actually_ ditched him when she had… well, ditched him.

He was only a few blocks away from campus, so he decided to walk. He needed time to stew in his humiliation before seeing another familiar face, anyway. That was when he felt a cold, wet sensation on the top of his thigh. Stiles paused and reached into his jeans' pocket to find two melting icecubes.

"What the_ actual _fuck?"

* * *

"No way, Lydia," said Stiles, shaking his head. "I took your advice first because you're the smartest of everyone here and because you're the only one actually in a relationship, but you failed me! Not only did you fail me, but you ditched me! You left me to my own devices, left me alone to die of humiliation in a creepy, old-man pub! I am not taking any more of _your_ advice, you mean and nasty ditcher."

Lydia rolled her eyes and opened her mouth to speak further, but Stiles let out of a muffled scream of annoyance and pointed at her, shaking his head again. She closed her mouth and let out a little huff.

"Okay, Scott," said Stiles, turning his attention to Scott sitting across from him. "You're up, buddy."

"I don't think so, man," said Scott. "I don't even _like_ Professor Hale. There is literally no upside to me helping you get together with him. The guy is creepy!"

Stiles gave him a sad face. Scott shook his head. Stiles gave him an even sadder face, complete with wobbly bottom lip. Scott crossed his arms over his chest and shifted uncomfortably on the student room chair. Stiles kept staring at him. Scott finally let out a frustrated noise and threw his arms open.

"Fine!" exclaimed Scott. "What about that cool knife you got from your great grandfather when he died? You could bring it to Professor Hale some time to see if he can date it for you."

"Scott! You're a genius!"

Scott crossed his arms over his chest again.

"Just promise to have all your sex at _his _house, _please_?" he whined.

Stiles grinned broadly because, _hell yes, all the sex_!

* * *

-BREAK-

* * *

"Fucking damnit, Greenberg," Stiles muttered under his breath as he waited around the periphery of Professor Hale's desk trying (and failing) not to look awkward.

The knife was in his messenger bag. He had practically held his breath as he entered the university with it that morning upon suddenly realizing they had a strict No Weapons policy on campus for obvious reasons and, duh, antique as it was, he was carrying a damn weapon. It was the end of class and he was planning on approaching the professor then, but Greenberg. wouldn't. fucking. leave.

"...it was mainly during the Spanish Inquisition, so you could begin your research there," spoke Professor Hale. When Stiles actually glanced at him, he realized the man, even though his voice remained patient, looked nearly as irritated with Greenberg's questions as Stiles was. _Shit_, maybe he was in a hurry to leave.

Stiles considered leaving as Greenberg continued to grill their professor. He didn't want to run the risk of being lumped with Greenberg in Professor Hale's mind. If the guy was in a rush to get out of there, it would be completely counterproductive to Stiles' cause for him to slow him down.

"But what does heresy have to do with the Spanish Inquisition?" asked Greenberg, looking just as lost as when he had started his questioning.

Professor Hale smiled ruefully to himself and rubbed at the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache coming on. That was definitely Stiles' cue to leave. He shouldered his messenger bag, gave a last regretful look in Professor Hale's direction and quietly left the otherwise empty classroom.

He was just about to turn down the busy hallway when he heard a practically-shouted "..._Tribunal del Santo Oficio de la Inquisición_ in the library!_" _followed by hurried footsteps and slightly more chill "Stiles?"

It was jarring in the most pleasant of ways to hear his name on the man's tongue -okay, not his real name, but that made it all the more awesome. Stiles turned around to see Professor Hale jogging to his side. Despite his pleasure, Stiles was baffled. He countered with a "Professor Hale?"

"Peter's fine outside of class," offered Peter with a quick grin. He looked a little harried, maybe he was on a mad dash to his next class or an appointment. "Did you have a question or…?"

"Did I… oh, no I just… I was going to… it was…" Stiles paused and took a breath, rolling his eyes at himself. "I don't want to keep you if you're in a hurry."

Peter's smile turned confused and he tilted his head to the side ever so slightly.

"No, no hurry," Peter said. "This is my last class, today."

"Oh!" said Stiles, a smile breaking across his face. "Well, in that case, I brought this.. uh.." he paused and looked around conspicuously before continuing, it seemed to pique Peter's interest, "dagger that I thought you might be interested in seeing."

"Really?" stated Peter brightly, "that sounds positively prepossessing! Do you have time to come to my office, now?"

"Yeah, sounds good!" said Stiles, enthusiasm blooming.

"Fantastic," said Professor Hale placing a hand on Stiles' shoulder and lightly steering him back to his office while Stiles did a mental fistpump. "I'm glad I didn't miss you!"

Once they were both seated in his office with the door shut, Stiles opened his bag and pulled out the dagger wrapped in aged kraft paper. He set it on Professor Hale's desk and unwrapped it to reveal the iron beauty, much of the details carved in its wooden handle lost from years of use before it had been deemed simply a keepsake.

"I don't even know just how old it is," admitted Stiles, glancing across the wide desk to see Peter's full attention was on the blade in his hands. He suddenly felt clumsy from it. He cleared his throat before turning it to hand, handle first, to his professor. "It's been in the family a very long time. We inherited it from my grandfather when he passed and Dad gave it to me when I moved out."

Peter reverently took the dagger from Stiles. He said nothing as he closely inspected it for a few, long minutes while Stiles tried not to allow himself to fill the silence with awkward ramblings. Stiles swallowed dryly as he watched the way Peter's exquisite fingers stroked barely-there over the blade as if testing its sharpness.

"This is quite amazing," said Peter, finally. "It looks near-medieval!"

"It… it's been in the family a _really_ long time," agreed Stiles, nodding. "Dziadzia always claimed it was from the Wolinians we descended from."

Peter pursed his lips thoughtfully, turning the dagger over in his hands a few more times. Stiles_ did not _internally swoon even a little bit at how the expression looked on Peter's face, nor did he spare even a glance at the muscle and tendon-play in his wrists and forearms as Peter moved the weapon in his hands. Nope. Not even for a second.

"I don't think it's quite that old," he said, regretfully, though Stiles wasn't the least put out by the news. He was much too busy _not_ enjoying the view. "You can definitely see hints of the Slavic Mythology carved into the handle, though."

"Yeah?" asked Stiles, leaning over as Peter pointed out the circular shapes barely visible with how worn the handle was. He would take time later, when he wasn't in Peter's presence and being completely distracted by it, to marvel at how all-encompassing Peter's knowledge of European history truly was that he would even know what Stiles had meant by Wolinians.

"Thunder marks," explained Peter, but Stiles was too distracted to ask what that meant. Peter had taken Stiles' hand in his own to show Stiles which parts of the carving he was talking about. It was completely unnecessary, but it was absolutely, completely welcome. He tried not to squeak outright at the warmth of Peter's firm but purposely gentled grip on his hand. "It has worn considerably, but do you feel the indents?"

"Yes," croaked Stiles.

"Here," said Peter, moving Stiles' hand down the side of the dagger's handle. "These almost-celtic looking lines are actually horns. This is probably for Ipabog, the god of the hunt. Over here, though," continued Peter, his hand still around Stiles', still moving Stiles' fingertips over the smooth wood of the worn knife, still lighting fire and goosebumps up Stiles' arm. "This is representational of Živa, the goddess of fertility and love. This could very well have been made to be given as a wedding gift from a bride to her husband for luck and prosperity in their future shared life."

Peter finally let go of Stiles' hand. Even though, Stiles felt the urge to pull it back quickly now that it was finally released to him, he tried his best to withdraw slowly, casually, as if Peter _wasn't_ just bad-touching all over his hand like some sort of Vulcan lady-killer. It was amazing; the tingles. The _fucking_ tingles.

"I mean, what else in this world is better than food and sex?" concluded Peter with a sharp grin.

Okay, in that moment, yeah, Stiles could see what Scott meant about 'creepy'. Not because Peter _was_ creepy, but because his smile was downright sinister. Still, it mostly came off as stomach butterfly inducing. What did it say about Stiles that someone could be both slightly off-putting and completely crush-worthy at exactly the same time?

"Can't think of anything," agreed Stiles, shaking his head in a jerking motion.

If he were crazy, he would think Peter were flirting. The epic hand touching and the food and sex comment, like, who just says that!? but… but, Stiles was mostly sane. Mostly. And he knew there was no way in hell Professor Hale would flirt with _him_. Peter was so out of his league that if Stiles spent any time thinking about it, he'd lose himself to melancholy. There had to be another explanation, but the fact that he couldn't think of one made him feel all the more awkward.

Then Peter stood up, dagger still in his hands, and slowly walked around the desk to join Stiles. He was smiling with his canines. It wasn't attractive _at all_, not even slightly. No, Stiles was not completely turned on by the danger of them, nor the sensual pull of Peter's lips over them. That was ludicrous, especially because it _wasn't_ attractive. Stiles licked his lips. It felt like his heart was beating hard enough for both of their ears to hear.

"I really appreciate you bringing this in to show me, Stiles," spoke Peter.

Stiles stood and offered him a lame smile, his one hand still feeling slightly foreign to him with the memory of Peter's touch.

"Well, I knew, I mean, I figured you liked this sort of stuff, so I thought I'd.. yeah," Stiles paused and let out a sheepish chuckle. "I'm glad you liked seeing it and I wasn't just majorly wasting your time with my elementary school show and tell."

Peter laughed at that, soft and genuine._ Amusingly endearing_, thought Stiles triumphantly.

"Believe it or not, I don't actually get a lot of visits from my students; show and tell or otherwise," said Peter. "It seems there a few rumours going around that I am some sort of cannibal."

Peter rolled his eyes and smiled as if saying 'whatcha gonna do?' Stiles laughed lightly, feeling a little more at ease. He grabbed the kraft paper off the desk seeing that Peter meant to give the dagger back to him.

"It's probably the canines," he said as he opened his hands with the wrinkled brown paper in them so Peter could place the dagger atop.

"Canines?" asked Peter as he placed the ancient weapon in Stiles' hands.

"The teeth," said Stiles, making a show of baring his own. "Your canines look freakishly sharp."

Eyes dancing with further amusement, Peter bit his lips together, making it hard to read his facial expression. It seemed a mix of insecurity and humour. It was strange enough that it caused Stiles to rewind what he had just said.

"Not freakishly!" he exclaimed, jolting hard. "Not that you're a freak! I _like_ the-"

He watched as Peter's face went from amused to surprised to pained in one slow-motion millisecond before realizing that the dagger had fallen from the kraft paper in his hands. He looked down to see it had landed blade first in the toe of Peter's left shoe.

"Oh, SHIT," exclaimed Stiles, looking from the dagger standing upright in Peter's shoe to Peter's grimacing face. "Oh my g… oh shit… oh _shit_.. I am so sorry!"

"It's fine, it's fine, just... _get it. out_. of my foot," spoke Peter through clenched feet, all signs of good humour completely gone from his expression.

Stiles instantly dropped to his knees at Peter's feet. He gingerly took hold of the knife's handle, careful not to jostle it in the least, and pulled it straight up, praying to high heaven he didn't mess up and do even more damage to his gorgeous professor's unfortunate foot. Peter hissed and then let out the most guttural, albeit fairly quiet, groan. It made Stiles realize their positions to each other and the most probable connotations of it.

And, of course, because he wasn't already mortified from having injured his favorite university professor with a family heirloom, in that very moment there was a quick knock on Peter's office door followed by it being pushed open.

"Hey Petey, I ju…. whoa-ho-ho-HO!" exclaimed the familiar voice of Professor Finstock. "Not doing so well on those essays, Bilinski?"

Stiles jumped up with the speed of electrification, throwing his knife onto Peter's desk and nervously wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. When he realized what _that_ probably looked like, he quickly dropped his hand back to his side. _Wiping his mouth, what a fucking idiot._

"It's not what it looks like, Bobby," said Professor Hale, his voice strained from the pain he most surely was in -it probably sounded similarly strained in response to other things, which, again, wasn't helping the situation. "It's far worse. Can you run down to the Nursing Department and see if you can get anyone over here to patch up my foot?"

"Yeah, sure, Petey," said Finstock, his brow furrowing.

Mercifully, Finstock didn't say anything else, just left to perform his new task. When the office door clicked back shut, Peter closed his eyes tightly and breathed out a heavy sigh.

"_Gawd_, I hate it when he calls me Petey," muttered Peter before trying to take a step toward his desk and faltering heavily.

Stiles was quick to rush to his side, letting Peter throw an arm over his shoulders for support.

"Professor Hale, man, I am so, _so_ sorry," said Stiles as he helped him to the chair in front of his desk. Peter sat down heavily in it and breathed another heavy sigh through clenched teeth.

"It's fine, Stiles, it was an accident," he said, voice strained. "You should probably go, though... before this affects your grade."

Stiles laughed weakly, hoping like hell that Professor Hale was joking.

"Okay, I'll just, yeah.. okay," said Stiles, awkwardly, as he grabbed his messenger bag and made a few abortive movements in opposite directions. "I'm so sorry," he said again before finally turning to leave.

"Stiles," Peter practically growled in his pained voice, making Stiles shudder and pause in the office doorway.

"Uh, yeah?" he asked, swinging around to see Peter holding his dagger out to him with a deep frown on his face.

"Oh, shit, yeah.. ah hah hah," he said, quickly grabbing it and shoving it in his messenger bag. "Wouldn't want to, uh, forget that. Urgh, you'll probably want a tetanus shot or something, hey?"

Peter growled something under his breath, but Stiles couldn't make out what it was. He scrambled out of the room with Peter cursing in pain behind him.

Stiles turned down the hall, half-jogging in his desire to be as far from the bad situation he had accidently created as quickly as possible. He nearly ran right into Professor Finstock and a woman in scrubs who looked like she was probably an instructor from the nursing department.

"I dunno, some weird sex thing, I think," said Finstock answering a question she must have asked before Stiles had been in earshot. Finstock eyed him suspiciously as Stiles hurried past.

* * *

"How'd the dagger thing go?" asked Scott at lunch the next day.

"Yeah, did he let you see his after you showed him yours?" asked Jackson with a smarmy smirk.

Stiles groaned, letting his forehead drop down on the cafeteria table, making sure, at least, to miss his sandwich in front of him. "Why do you even care, Jackson?" he grumbled against the plastic-coated wood of the tabletop.

"I enjoy watching you fail," answered Jackson.

Stiles reached up with his hand to flip him off, but didn't move his forehead from the table.

"Scott, you're fired," said Stiles after a few beats. "Not only did it not work, but he's now walking with a limp."

"...walking with a limp?" asked Lydia after a few moments of heavy silence at their table.

"I thought… doesn't that mean that it_ did_ work?" asked Scott hesitantly.

Stiles did lift his head, then, but only to give his best friend a judgmental look.

"Not _that_ kind of limp, idiot," he hissed.

"Whoa, dude, sorry," said Scott, raising his hands in defense.

Stiles let out a long sigh.

"I kind of dropped the dagger and it stuck him in the foot," he said lowly, not really wanting them to hear.

Jackson cracked up immediately.

"Only you, Stiles," he cackled like a witchy old woman.

Stiles ground his teeth.

"I can't believe I survived your crush on me," said Lydia with a sad sigh, giving Stiles a look that was a mix of judgment and sympathy for a lower life form. Only Lydia could possibly pull of such a look.

Stiles just groaned and dropped his head back down on the table. He was so _not_ looking forward to his next History of Torture Devices class. He wondered idly if they'd be studying any devices of _self-inflicted_ torture, because he knew _all_ about _that_ sort of trauma by that point. He'd probably ace the unit without even trying.

* * *

"Good morning, everyone," called Professor Hale, getting up from behind his desk to walk to the middle of the front of the room to address the class.

Stiles breathed out a barely audible moan of dejection when he noticed the man's slight limp. He laid his head on his desk and covered his face with his arms. Peter was still limping a week later. It must have been bad.

"It's that time again, children," Professor Hale continued. Stiles heard paper being passed around and lifted his head an inch to grab the stack when it was handed to him. He took a sheet before handing it on. "Midterms. Woo! But, do not fear, I will not begiving you an exam."

A few soft cheers rose up around the classroom. Stiles, wiser than those idiots, silently waited for the other shoe to drop.

"Instead, you'll be writing a paper," said Professor Hale. No one cheered. "Don't be so enthusiastic, guys," he said with a hint of sadistic pleasure apparent in his voice. "It'll be fun; you get to choose your subject! I want each of you to choose an instrument of torture to research and write about. Be creative in your choices, I want to learn something."

"Would the history of writing essays be an appropriate choice for instruments of torture?" whispered the girl to Stiles' left who thought he was scared of their professor.

Stiles looked up from his arms and gave her a weak chuckle for her efforts. She seemed to accept that, smiling to herself before turning back to the newly handed-out sheet of paper in her hands. Stiles looked down at his, too. It was the directions and requirements for their midterm essay. The irony of the last requirement on the list, especially given the topic of the class, was something only Professor Hale could get away with. "#7 Have Fun!" Stiles smiled to himself and rolled his eyes. He looked up just in time to catch Professor Hale looking his way. It made his heart jump in his chest, but he didn't dare allow himself to dwell on it. The man's eyes were sweeping the entirety of the room while he addressed it, afterall. Plus, if he did spare a single thought for Stiles, it was probably due to the considerable pain in his foot.

Some time was spent where students asked various questions. Stiles couldn't help but roll his eyes at a few redundant ones. Obviously, everyone was nervous about writing their first midterm papers, that didn't mean they needed to ask so many idiotic questions and waste the class' time as a whole. Soon enough, though, Professor Hale moved on to the day's topic and the powerpoint began. Stiles sunk down low in his desk, notebook out so he could take notes, and allowed the rise and fall of Professor Hale's voice to sooth his own anxieties while he watched the different photos, pictures and diagrams of historical ways to bring the maximum pain onto people as they appeared on the screen.

He knew that History of Torture Devices shouldn't be a relaxing class, especially not when it was taught by someone he had a crush on, and definitely not when he had recently (accidentally) stabbed that person in the foot. But, the heart wants what the heart wants.

Stiles spent the last fifteen minutes of the class debating on whether to approach the professor after or not. When Professor Hale dismissed them, nearly half of the class moved down to the front of the room instead of up to the back where the main exit was. It was too long a wait just to give him another lame apology, it'd look even more pathetic. Stiles inhaled a soft sigh and put his things into his bag. He trudged up the aisle steps and left the classroom, not daring to look back and catch his professor favoring his foot, again.

He decided to skip lunch in the cafeteria that day, not really wanting the snarky banter of his friends, and headed straight back to his dorm room. When he opened the door to his and Scott's shared room, though, it was to find Scott and Lydia sitting on Scott's bed with paper and books scattered around them and a laptop to the side.

Stiles let out a frustrated groan and, in one movement, dropped his bag to the floor, kicked the door shut, and threw himself onto his bed. The mattress was way too thin to support such a landing. Had he been any less depressed, he would have wondered at how Scott managed to do it so often without knocking the wind out of his lungs.

"Dude, major paradigm shift!" pointed out Scott sounding both proud of his word choice and amused at the situation. Stiles barely refrained from flipping him off. It was only the fact that Scott was _Scott_ that stayed his hand.

"Scott, my good friend," said Stiles monotone into his pillow, "I don't think you used that term correctly just now."

"What!? No! I'm just saying, you and Lydia were always complaining about me doing that after Professor Hale's classes and now you keep doing it," said Scott. "That's exactly what it means, right?"

Stiles looked up from his pillow to look to Lydia for backup, Scott was looking to her for the same. She rolled her eyes and shook her head.

"My knowledge is wasted on you two," she said in exasperation before gathering up the papers scattered across the bed. "Scott, go over the changes I've made to your essay and rewrite it. Do it today. I want to be able to look it over one more time before you hand it in tomorrow night."

Scott groaned. Lydia paused and turned back to him with narrowed eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said, sharply, "is my taking time out of my already busy schedule during midterm season putting you out? Shall I stop helping you?"

"No!" exclaimed Scott. "No, I'm sorry Lydia. Thank you for helping me, Lydia."

"That's what I thought," she said, before roughly handing the stack of papers to Scott. "What's bothering you, Stiles?" she asked, then, as she picked up her own bag and sweater where they hung over the side of Scott's bed.

Stiles let out groan.

"You know what, I don't w-" "He's still walking with a limp!" "-ant to know."

Lydia let out an exasperated breath before leaning over Stiles to drop a kiss to his cheek. Stiles let out a pathetic whimper.

"I've mutilated his foot and he will hate me forever," he whined.

Lydia didn't say anything to that, just turned and left the room. It was strangely quiet once she was gone. Stiles laid with his face pressed into his pillow, waiting for sleep to overtake him. All he could hear was the rare sound of shuffling paper where Scott was revising some essay.

After quite some time, though, Scott broke the silence by speaking. "We are going to have to get Lydia the best Christmas gift ever, this year."

* * *

It took half a week for Stiles to end his epic pout and actually start joining his friends for things, again. He sat down in a vacant bean bag chair in the dorm lounge. The conversation stopped and all eyes turned to him.

"So, you've finally decided to grace us with your appearance?" teased Tasha.

"Yeah," said Stiles, simply.

"Busy with midterm papers?" asked Jeremy, "because I feel your pain, man. I figured having the same classes year-round instead of semesterly would give me more time to concentrate on the content, but I'm pretty sure it just gives the instructors leeway to shove more random shit in the curriculum."

"Naw, I don't have that many," said Stiles. "Just two to write, the rest are exams."

"Brutal, I hate writing exams," said Tasha sympathetically.

"Stiles excels at exam-taking," said Lydia, almost proudly.

"Oh, I take back my sympathy," said Tasha, frowning. "You're a dink."

Stiles cracked a smile at that, because _dink, reall_y?

"Dink? Tasha, really?" asked Jeremy causing Stiles' smile to broaden.

Tasha just shrugged.

"When do you get your essay back, Scott?" asked Lydia "I want to know how I did on it."

Scott grimaced.

"Keep saying it like that and people are going to think you're doing my homework for me," he warned, grumpily.

"Please," responded Lydia. "If I were doing your homework for you, you'd be getting a much higher mark."

"So, if it isn't midterms, why have you been MIA?" asked Jeremy.

"I've just been laying low," said Stiles with a shrug.

"You'd want to, too, after stabbing one of your professors," cut in Jackson as he suddenly materialized in the doorway and stepped into the room.

"What?" exclaimed Jeremy and Tasha in unison while Lydia and Scott's expressions turned grave and Stiles' turned an approximation of green.

"It was an accident," he muttered.

"Who did you stab?" asked Tasha. "And… _how_ did you stab them?"

"Professor Hale," said Stiles pathetically, "with a dagger, in his office."

"I suddenly feel like I'm in Clue," quipped Lydia.

"I thought you _liked_ him?" asked Jeremy in confusion.

"I did… I do.. I… it was an accident, I dropped it and it stuck in his foot."

"Oh, that's why he's been limping," said Tasha, nodding with sudden understanding.

"I can't help but point out the irony of you injuring your torture professor," said Jeremy with a wry smile.

Jackson started to crack up. violently.

"You guys all suck," said Stiles, grabbing his bag and making to stand. Getting out of a bean bag chair, especially as a long-limbed mostly-adult, was not a graceful endeavor and wouldn't lend to a good storm-out, but he had to work with what he had.

"No, Stiles," said Scott. "Don't go, man. You just got here and we've missed you."

Stiles deflated back down into the bean bag chair. It was too much effort to get out of, anyway.

"I'm sorry for being insensitive, Stiles," apologized Tasha. "So, why did you have a dagger in his office, anyway?"

"I brought it to show him," said Stiles with a deflating sigh. "Scott's idea."

"Show him a dagger and get in his pants?" asked Jackson, smirking. "Great idea, Scott. No wonder you're still painfully single."

Scott gave Jackson an angry look.

"Not for long," cut in Lydia. "He's finally going to ask that Allison girl out."

"Who says she'll say yes?" snarked Jackson.

"She will," said Stiles, reaching to pat Scott on the back. "She's really nice and she's already interested in Scott. Besides, who could say 'no' to that face?"

He gestured to Scott who, on cue, made a pouty face with puppy-dog eyes. Lydia groaned and Tasha grinned to herself but still shook her head.

"Do not beg," ground out Lydia. "Scott, promise me you will not beg. I didn't groom you for this just for you to embarrass me."

"So, you just randomly have a dagger kicking around and decided to take it to show Professor Hale?" asked Jeremy, turning the conversation back to Stiles.

"Family heirloom," said Stiles with a shrug. "Thought he'd enjoy checking it out."

"I'm guessing from his limp that it wasn't overly enjoyable," said Jeremy with a grin, before remembering he was supposed to be nice and stilling.

Stiles just frowned.

"Are you still going to try to win him over, though?" asked Tasha.

"I don't know," sighed Stiles. "It's probably better for his health that I don't."

"Nonsense," said Lydia. "You can still turn this around."

Stiles gave her a look like she was crazy. He didn't have that many opportunities to do so, he _had _to take advantage.

"So what have you tried so far?" asked Tasha, looking like she was ready to device a serious game plan.

"No, guys," said Stiles. "I can't do this to him, it's horrible. I'm horrible. I didn't have a chance to begin with, and after the mess I've made, I definitely don't have one, now. Besides, it's midterm season. Just because I take exams well, doesn't mean I don't have to study. And I _do_ have two midterm papers to write."

"Which classes?" asked Lydia.

"Well, I have one for History of Torture Devices and one for C-"

"That's it!" exclaimed Tasha, brightly.

"What is?" asked Stiles, wary.

"Flirting hasn't been working in person, so how about in your writing? You could write something in your midterm essay to tell him how you feel!" said Tasha, looking suddenly, rather proud of herself.

"I really don't think that-"

"No." cut in Lydia, nodding. "I wouldn't normally say this, but you should try Tasha's idea."

"Hey!" objected Tasha, but Lydia ignored her

"You're both mildly intelligent men, if you put enough subtle innuendo in there," said Lydia, "he would understand that you're interested in him."

"Does it have to be innuendo?" asked Scott, frowning. "Maybe it should be something more romantic, you know? I mean, it's one thing to lust over your college professor, but-"

"Guys, don't you think that-" tried Stiles, but everyone was busy talking over him, even Jeremy seemed to think it was a good idea.

"Just do it, Stiles," said Lydia, cutting through the cacophony. "You've never been short on ridiculous innuendo before, I'm sure you can come up with something."

"Put some romantic stuff in there, too, though," added Scott. "You know, to balance it."

"Gaaaaaay," jeered Jackson at the 'romantic' statement, pointing at Scott.

* * *

-BREAK-

* * *

Stiles rubbed his hand over his face and moved to lean his head against it. He was exhausted, but his blood felt like it was buzzing beneath his skin from the sheer amount of caffeine coursing through his system. He had left his paper for Professor Hale until last as it had the furthest due date and, well, it was going to be doubly difficult (and important) to write.

He still couldn't believe he had let his friends talk him into writing purple prose into his midterm essay -his midterm essay on torture. Torture. How was he going to do it? Well, at least he hadn't chosen to write on the Judas Chair, or the Pear of Anguish, or… urgh… the Crocodile Shears.

He had started by doing all the research, drawing out an outline for his paper, doing everything like he would for any paper. Now, though, now he had to attempt to write it in a way that somehow subtly called the reader to… _come hither_.

It was late. Stiles eyes burned from overuse. He sat crosslegged on his dorm bed, a small lamp clipped onto his headboard to cast light on the sheets of paper laying near his knee, and his laptop in his lap. Scott was snoring softly across the small room, his blanket pulled up over his head in an unconscious attempt to keep the low, but still opposing, light out of his face.

Stiles wanted to hate him for sleeping while he burned the metaphorical midnight oil, but he knew Scott had been up for many nights just like this over the past week. Scott's last exam had been that afternoon. Once Stiles handed in his paper to Professor Hale, they'd both be free for the holiday season. It was a liberating thought, except for the fact that this seemingly insurmountable task laid in front.

Stiles let out a heavy sigh and rubbed his face, again. Then, suddenly, as if like a strike of lightning (cliché as it was), inspiration hit him and Stiles was suddenly quick to press fingertips to the laptop's keyboard. He grinned to himself as he typed. He could do it, he could write a flirty paper to his professor, he could get a good grade and a sexy professor. He had the power. If there was anything in life that he excelled at, it was writing unusual and effective papers.

He typed for nearly an hour, never ceasing, only pausing to check his notes for particular facts and dates. He was pink in the cheeks and breathing a little heavily when he finished. He leaned back against his headboard and grinned to himself. He was _so _good.

He considered simply saving and powering down the laptop for the night, but ultimately decided to stick with the roll he was on, and did all the proofreading and editing that night as well. He could have slept for a little bit, rose early and worked on the editing, or he could continue on right then. It wasn't until dawn the next morning that he finally powered down the laptop and crawled beneath the covers. Scott was just beginning to stir in his sleep and noise was beginning to grow in the hall beyond their room as students rose for the morning. Stiles grinned to himself, closed his eyes and fell to sleep.

He slept until noon. The alarm on his phone sounded then to let him know he only had two hours until his paper was due. He got up, got dressed, and hooked his laptop up to his and Scott's shared printer and printed out the essay. It was coming up on one in the afternoon by the time he was ready to leave the dorm. He felt lighter than he had in forever, mild excitement humming just beneath his skin as he walked with a bounce in his step (still tired as he was) toward the main campus, his goal ultimately Professor Hale's office.

The door to Room 407 stood open. Stiles met Greenberg who was just leaving through it on his way in. He gave him a half-smile of shared sympathy/joy of finishing and handing in the last assignment for the class that year. He didn't like Greenberg in the least, but on this, they shared a mutual understanding.

When Stiles stepped into Professor Hale's office, he was disappointed to see the man himself was not actually present. There were three piles of essays on his desk, a sticky note at the head of each pile with the name of the class scrawled across it in Professor Hale's severe handwriting. HIST 209: History of Torture Devices was the smallest of piles. It was the shortest of piles, probably because it was the smallest class. Not everyone in the Arts department shared the same morbid curiosity as Stiles and his classmates, obviously.

After setting the plastic protector holding his midterm paper in it on the top of the pile, Stiles turned and left. He met Scott in the cafeteria for lunch where they were eventually joined by Lydia and Jackson. The four of them talked about their plans for winter break. Now that he was done his midterms, Stiles could look forward to Beacon Hills, pumpkin pie, and his dad. Still, he couldn't help wondering about Professor Hale; what he would be doing for the break, when he would get around to marking the essays, and what his reaction to Stiles' would be.

* * *

-BREAK-

* * *

It was his second day back from winter break. Stiles still felt a little lazy from the food coma he and Scott had fallen into with the amount of holiday-related feasts they had fearlessly taken on. They had spent a lot of the holidays together, moreso than the usual. It seemed their parents had grown rather close in their absence. It had been good, really good, but now Stiles was back to his little dorm, back to classes, back to life at university. And… most of all, back to his ridiculous, all-encompassing crush.

Stiles had watched Professor Hale extra closely in class that day. It had probably made him look really creepy or like a total keener, or some sort of combination of the two. Hale _had _to have read it, seeing as he had promised to let them know their grades at the end of class that day. So, nervously, Stiles watched the man for any signs, any little nuances in his demeanor that would let Stiles know what he had thought of the essay, or if he had even picked up on Stiles' euphemisms.

Unfortunately, Professor Hale acted the same as he always had in class, giving Stiles nothing to go off of. At the end of class, Professor Hale announced he was handing back the midterm papers and Stiles felt a cold sweat take over his skin as he waited for his essay to come back to him. Professor Hale placed it on his desk as he walked past, not even faltering in stride, as if Stiles were just any other student in his class. Was it because he _was_ just any student, or was it that Professor Hale was overcompensating?

Stiles took a deep breath and looked down at the essay. There was nothing written on the first page except for his letter grade in red ink. Not even caring about the grade, Stiles flipped the page to reveal nothing but his original text and a few spots where Hale had corrected his grammar in that same, regular, teacherly red. He worried his bottom lip between his teeth and flipped to the third and final page of the paper.

Stiles' stomach began to flip flop its way up his esophagus as he took in the sight of the two different notes at the end of his essay. One note was in red ink and one was in a nervous black.

Black ink.

It was as if Professor Hale had reread Stiles' essay at a later time on a different day and left that black note there -or was the black note first? Had Hale been so flabbergasted by Stiles' essay that he couldn't mark it the first time around?

_Please find me in my office after class._

The bottom dropped out of his stomach.

What was the tone of that request? Was the different colour of ink there to symbolize that it was a note meant to be read as a request made outside of the professor/student relationship? Was it that Professor Hale was shy and had subconsciously wanted the note to blend in with the black text of Stiles' essay? What… what could it possibly mean? Maybe it was black to symbolize how gravely a mistake Stiles had made.

Stiles stared at the note a few beats more before he realized the classroom was almost completely emptied of students. He hastily stood and packed up his things before stumbling up the steps of the classroom's rise and heading for the door. In the distance, Stiles could see Professor Hale was already making his way out through the teacher's door. Stiles tightened his grip on his bag's strap and stepped out into the crowded hallway.

He nearly ran into a group of girls chattering away as they strolled through the busy hall as if on a Saturday stroll in the mall. He twirled mid stride and was momentarily impressed at his own figure-skater-like grace before picking up his speed and dodging more groups of students. Finally, he came to the big, dark brown door of Professor Hale's office and then he had to take a few moments to catch his breath and shake out his nerves before knocking at the door.

_This is it_, he thought when he heard the lovely timbre of Professor Hale's 'come in', and then Stiles turned the knob and pressed the door open.

* * *

"I can't believe I listened to your advice!" exclaimed Stiles in frustrated humiliation.

"My advice is always sound," said Lydia and, though Stiles couldn't see her from under his pile of self-pity blankets, he could practically see her expression from the sound of her voice. "Explain."

Stiles was curled up tightly in a fetal position on the ugly, red couch of their student room. He poked his nose out from under the blanket pile.

"I did like you said," he complained, voice slightly muffled through blankets. "I made my essay flirty and did my best to fill it with double entendre and innuendo so he would understand that I was interested in him. I thought I had made it glaringly obvious that I was… _open for business_."

"Okay," said Lydia, slowly, urging Stiles to continue with just the lilt of judgment in her voice.

"And now he thinks I'm a psychopath," groaned Stiles, throwing his head back in his misery only to smack it on the arm of the couch and let out a loud hiss.

He opened his eyes just in time to catch the end of Lydia's eye roll. Ignoring her condescending attitude -which, really, was the only way to be friends with Miss Lydia Martin- he sat up and rubbed at the back of his head.

"You obviously did it wrong," said Lydia with a put-upon sigh. She grabbed the blankets and threw them onto the floor. "Give me your essay, let me read it."

"No… no way… nuh-uh," yelped Stiles, pressing the stupid essay with the stupid black ink note on the stupid last page against his chest to keep it safe from Lydia.

"I can't help you, if I don't know just how epically you've messed up, Stiles," huffed Lydia before standing up from the chair across from him and grabbing for the essay.

Stiles let out a weird, dying pterodactyl sound, before jerking the paper away from Lydia. She moved in closer and Stiles scrambled to keep it away. When it was obvious she wasn't going to let up, he did the only thing any self-respecting man in his position would and shoved the essay down the front of his pants.

Lydia straightened from where she had been leaning over him and put her hands on her hips, a frustrated scowl taking over her beautiful face. She let out an annoyed puff of breath and levelled Stiles with a deadpan look.

"Do you really want to play this game, Stilinski?" she asked in a grave voice.

Stiles stared up at her in surprise. She wouldn't…

Suddenly, Lydia was in action and Stiles only had enough time to let out a mortifying squeak as she, in one swift motion, knelt over him on the couch, unzipped his jeans, and pulled out the crumpled pages of his essay. Stiles' eyes were saucers as he stared up at her, still kneeling over his lap as she quickly scanned over his essay.

He glanced over her shoulder when he saw movement only to meet the gazes of two semi-familiar-faced guys giving him enthusiastic thumbs up.

"Okay, wow, Stiles, you are much stupider than I thought," said Lydia, suddenly.

"E-excuse me?" croaked out Stiles in a weird husky, high-pitched voice that didn't even seem possible. So, he was mostly gay, but that didn't mean he was all gay… and Lydia was, well, Lydia.. just because he wasn't passionately in love with her any longer, didn't mean he had lost his ability to see her merits, both as an individual and as an aesthetically pleasing aphrodite... and she was practically straddling him and his jeans were open and… yeah… it was… _something_.

"How could you ever think that it would be even remotely sexy to write your intentions into an essay on medieval torture?" asked Lydia in an exasperated tone.

"That's the class! You know that's the class! Everyone knows that's the class. Professor Hale and _that class_ is all we ever talk about anymore! I _know_ you knew this and, still, _you _said…" exclaimed Stiles before trailing off weakly when he saw the intense look of annoyed disappointment in Lydia's otherwise beautiful eyes.

"Okay, we can fix this," she said, "...maybe. What did he say to you in his office?"

"He offered to arrange a meeting with a therapist and then he gave me a few pamphlets," said Stiles in a gust of breath, his shoulders lowering.

"What were their topics?" asked Lydia.

"The pamphlets?" asked Stiles.

Lydia didn't answer, just raised her eyebrows.

"Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, and Escaping Abusive Relationships," listed Stiles in humiliation.

Lydia looked thoughtful.

"Where are they?" she asked.

"Are you kidding me?" exclaimed Stiles. "I didn't take them!"

"Stiles," huffed Lydia in frustration. "I'm a genius, but I'm not _actually_ a miracle worker. I can't help you if you refuse to help yourself." Stiles stared at her uncomprehending. She let out a sigh and continued. "The fact that he went through the trouble to get you those pamphlets -which, who knows, could have been an embarrassing ordeal for _him _depending on how he had to go about procuring them- means that he does, in fact, care about you. Whether that is because he likes you especially or he's simply a caring professor, well, we can't know for sure."

Lydia slid off Stiles, then, and sat down on the couch next to him once he moved his legs out of the way. "This may be humiliating for you," she continued, "but at least it has succeeded in putting you back on his radar. The fact that you refused to take the pamphlets, though, that might be a point against you."

Stiles stared at her in disbelief.

"You can't seriously think I'm still going to continue with this," said Stiles, faintly. "After everything that has happened?"

"We might be able to work this in your favor," affirmed Lydia.

Stiles shook his head violently.

"Lydia, we're lucky he hasn't put a restraining order on me!" Stiles exclaimed. "I'm not going to do this anymore!"

"You said that after the dagger incident," said Lydia, skeptically.

"I should have stuck to it, then," said Stiles. "If I had, I wouldn't be in this mess! He tried to give me Dr. Deaton's number, Lydia! _Dr Deaton_!"

"What did you say?" asked Lydia.

"I told him I wasn't having any problems in _any_ of those areas. I adamantly told him this!" exclaimed Stiles. "Not that it matters, I mean, I'd probably deny it if I did, right?"

"Probably," agreed Lydia.

They sat in silence for a few beats. Stiles silently considered the possibility of transferring to a different university for the remainder of the school year. He didn't think he'd ever get the image of Professor Hale's concerned, handsome face out of his mind as the man tried to delicately offer him help.

"If you quit now, this'll have been all for naught," warned Lydia, bringing Stiles out of his melancholy thoughts.

"It _already_ _has_ been," groaned Stiles. "Let me just leave the poor man alone. We still don't even know if he's gay, or single, or _anything_. All we know is that he's painfully forgiving."

Lydia sighed in defeat.

"Okay, Sweetie," she said before leaning over to give Stiles a kiss on the forehead.

Stiles closed his eyes and leaned in to her touch just a little. He wasn't going to be a baby about this, but… but it actually really hurt. He was just one of those sorry bastards who gave their heart away too quickly when he found someone he deemed worthy. It didn't even make sense that he be so gone one someone without even spending time with them. It was just how his foolish heart operated. Lydia knew first hand, though, and the sympathy on her face told him she knew just how much it was hurting him to give up on this, too. It was probably why she had used the pet name without malice. It was definitely the first time she'd ever directed it at him genuinely.

He watched her leave after she had pulled away. He was tempted to grab the blankets where they were on the floor and pull them back over him for more quality pouting time, but decided against it when a group of students came into the room laughing together.

* * *

It wasn't actually as hard as Stiles feared it would be. He managed to continue on with his life in university as if he didn't have a heart-crushing longing for an unattainable man. Well, most of the time. He went to his classes, buried his thoughts in his studies during the week, and went out every couple weekends with friends. He never looked to hook up or anything, just enjoyed being out with friends, being young, even being a little reckless at times. He never actually forgot about Professor Hale, but he didn't purposely think about the man, either.

Time passed quickly between classes, assignments, and friends. He went home to visit his dad at spring break. While he was there, he learned that, yes, his dad and Scott's mom were, in fact, dating. Scott had been nothing but happy to learn the news when Stiles had ran out of the room to excitedly phone him. And, when he returned to university, Stiles simply continued his new routine of classes, studies, and the occasional weekend out.

Stiles, with Lydia's occasional help, was getting good marks in all his classes. Scott finally managed to ask Allison out and she started making appearances at gatherings of their group of friends. She fit in well. Scott was over the moon. It was good. _Everything_ was good. Yep, life was good.

Life was awesome.

"_Fuck_, my life _sucks,_" cried Stiles, slamming his dorm door behind him and half falling, half throwing himself down onto his dorm bed before remembering that doing so had nearly winded him last time. He let out a puff of air when he landed that sounded more like a moan of desperation.

"You are the most pathetic creature I have ever laid eyes on," said Lydia around a sigh.

Stiles spared a moment to glare across the room at her. She must have been there to help Scott prepare for his long-winded, final essay for English. They both had classes soon, though, so he wouldn't have to deal with their presence during his melt-down for long.

"What's wrong, man?" asked Scott, looking much more concerned than Lydia.

Stiles just let out another pathetic sound and pulled the blankets over himself. Moments passed as he continued to burrow and cocoon himself into his bedding. Finally, when he was properly wrapped up, he let out another heavy, sad sound.

"Professor Hale," he whined. "We were discussing the use of surgic-"

"I do _not _want to know what kind of morbid discussion you were having this time, Stiles," cut in Lydia, sharply. "I don't want to know_ anything_ about that class after I proofread your last essay for it. Jackson's right, you're a bunch of psychopaths."

"Dost mine ears deceive me?" cut in Scott, grinning at his own quote. "Did you just say _Jackson _was right?"

"Scott, while I appreciate your latest attempts at adding a little more witty snark into your speech patterns, Aladdin quotes just don't cut it," said Lydia shaking her head and rolling her eyes –also, effectively dodging to the valid point Scott had made.

Scott deflated. Stiles kind of wanted to pat him on the head so his tail would wag again- he was _such_ a puppy, sometimes. Stiles was too overcome with his current melancholy to do so, though.

"Stiles, what happened? But only tell me if you can do so without details of your current topic of study," asked Lydia, then.

"He was wearing that outfit, you know? The one that makes him look so hot and…" Stiles trailed off and let out another sigh before continuing. "Whatever, anyway, we were having a class discussion and I said something and he smiled at me -SMILED at me! Then he said 'very insightful, Mr. Stilinski'. INSIGHTFUL. I _swear_ he looked at me longer way than necessary after, too. It was… there was serious eye-contact, Lydia."

Lydia narrowed her eyes at Stiles.

"So, you're upset because you participated in class and your professor praised you for it?" she asked, slowly.

"Yes," groaned Stiles before burrowing deeper into his blankets so he didn't have to see anyone.

The room was quiet for quite some time, but then there was the sound of shifting and Stiles heard Scott whisper "I don't think he's getting over Professor Hale" and the unmistakable sound of Lydia smacking him upside the head.

"Genius," hissed Lydia.

Okay, so maybe life wasn't _awesome_. So, maybe Stiles wasn't coping all that well with his crush on Professor Hale. It still beat Stiles continuously making a fool of himself in front of the man. There was only another month to go until classes were done for the school year. Stiles could get through one more month of classes, right? It wouldn't be bad. He just needed to continue keeping his head down and working hard. Soon, he'd be so busy with finals that he'd not have the time to even _think _about Professor Hale. After that, he would have all summer break to get over his stupid crush, and if that wasn't enough, well, he was always hope that he didn't have any classes with the sexy many the following fall.

Everything would be fine.

Stiles could just put Professor Hale out of his mind and it would all… be… fine.

* * *

"Urgh" groaned Stiles when he walked into the campus coffee shop and saw the long line of students and staff waiting for their caffeine fix. He was exhausted, practically dead on his feet, and all he wanted was a coffee and a thousand years of sleep.

"Bad day?" asked a smooth voice.

Stiles looked up to see he was standing right behind Professor Hale. _Of course_. He had been doing so well at avoiding the man over the past couple weeks, it would figure he'd run into him when his shields were at their lowest.

"Yeah," sighed Stiles, trying for a smile but knowing it fell more into a tired grimace. "Bad month more like, but I just finished my last exam, so things will be looking up… as soon as I recuperate."

He craned his neck to look past Professor Hale to glare at the ridiculously long line in defeat.

"It was supposed to begin with an extra large cafe mocha with two shots of espresso, but I don't think my body can stand long enough for this line," he complained.

"I completely understand," said Peter, sounding like he did_ not_, in fact, understand. His voice lacked the pathetic whine which would indicate that he had any grounds for empathy. "I am looking forward to the summer break, too. Unfortunately for me, though, that doesn't begin until I've read and marked all eighty four of these essays and figured out everyone's final marks."

He gave a shake of his head and let out a soft sigh, patting the overfilled, brown leather messenger bag at his side.

"Man," said Stiles, looking at the bag in question with new eyes, "I am sorry I doubted your emphatic solace."

"Yes, well, it isn't all bad," said Peter, a sudden twinkle in his eye and twitch to the corners of his mouth, "sometimes I get to read the most fascinatingly disturbing pieces of unpublished literature to ever grace the English language. For example, at midterms I read this amazing paper on the aphrodisiacal qualities of getting one's head crushed until their eyeballs pop out their sockets."

Stiles's face heated and his eyes narrowed.

"Not once did I say anything about that being an aphrodisiac!" he hissed.

"Hmm," said Peter smirking good naturedly at Stiles in a way that made Stiles' stomach do that annoying, fluttery flip thing. "In any case, it was an absolutely titillating read, if not somewhat worrisome."

"I was just…" started Stiles, but even two and a half months later, he still had no idea of how to fix it, and felt just as humiliated over it. "I was just trying out a new writing style… you know, to keep things interesting."

The line moved and they both shuffled forward with it.

"Yes, that is one thing you are rather adept at," said Peter after a short pause; "Keeping things interesting. I always find your papers interesting -much more so than the constant, repetitive drivel that I usually have to mark. I have quite enjoyed having you in my class, Stiles. I've always found the points you add to class discussions quite _interesting_. In fact, I find _you_ quite interesting; have done so since the moment you clumsily walk-fell into my classroom last fall."

Stiles felt like he should argue for the sake of his natural coordination's honour, but it seemed like Professor Hale was building up to something, plus there was that whole dropping a dagger in his foot, thing. It was probably best if Stiles just let the topic move on.

"Would you allow me to buy you your coffee today?" finished Peter and, yep, there it was.

Stiles face palmed so hard he nearly gave himself a headache.

"You have _got _to be joking," he groaned out half angrily, half morosely from behind his hand.

"I'm sorry?" asked Peter, looking confused and slightly concerned when Stiles looked up.

"No... Sorry, I… urgh! You just make it look so e_asy_!" stuttered out Stiles before taking a deep breath.

That obviously didn't help Peter to understand.

Stiles took a deep breath and steeled himself before answering the original question. Here was his chance, finally, and he was _not_ going to mess it up by reacting idiotically. "I'd really like that, Professor Hale, as long as your company while I drink it is included," he said, finally.

A smile bloomed on Peter's face. "But of course, and it's Peter. I'm sure I've told you that before."

"Yes, well.." said Stiles around the beginnings of a goofy grin that he really needed to get a hold of before it got out of control. "I didn't want to overstep."

"Overstep," said Peter dryly. "Like following your professor to the bar one evening, or staring at him for prolonged periods of time in class, or trying to convince him you have some sort of thing going on with his nemesis just to make him jealous? Overstepping like that?"

"I… oh hell, you knew what was going on?" asked Stiles, faintly.

"No, but there were times I wondered. I figured it was just wishful thinking on my behalf," replied Peter, eyes sparkling.

"Wishful thinking," squeaked Stiles, his elation giving him an almost out-of-body sensation. He came back to himself only a millisecond after, though, when something occurred to him. "Nemesis!?" he asked.

Peter frowned. It gave him away.

"You have a nemesis," said Stiles. "Who even _are_ you?"

"It's just that Bobby Finstock, fellow," groaned Peter under his breath. "I know you seem to hold him in fairly high regard, but… He drives me _crazy_."

Stiles guffawed before sneakily shifting closer to Peter. He caught the movement and gave Stiles a crooked smirk. He even went so far as to wink before turning his attention back to the menu chalked up on the blackboard above the barista's head. Bastard.

"I wasn't looking him up in the library that day," admitted Stiles, lowly.

"I figured as much, but I wanted to get a little more ribbing in before letting it go," conceded Peter, leaning into Stiles so he would hear the low whisper in the busy room.

Stiles shook his head to himself, feeling his face heat. Damn Professor Hale and his damn everything. Stiles could already tell that this was going to be the beginning of something _freaking_ awesome. He was at the cusp of a new relationship, a relationship with the sexiest, most intelligent man he'd ever had on his radar. A sexy, smart, sharp-witted man whom Stiles had already made a fool of himself in front of numerous times over the past year.

What could go wrong?

* * *

END.


End file.
